


Murders and Mutualism

by the_phantasmagorical_politician



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2131449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_phantasmagorical_politician/pseuds/the_phantasmagorical_politician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this is just a simple John and Sherlock get together kind of fic... (Featuring: Confusion from both boys, sexuality crises from John, sulkiness from Sherlock, a bit of will they/won't they, some kissing (just joking a lot of kissing), sighs from Lestrade, anddd a murder.) I'm making this up as I go along so we'll both find out what happens at the same time, reader. Thank you so very much! Also - explicit rating for later on - we may not get that far, but there's a high probability we will (the first chapters are safe though!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

"Sherlock!", John called from the hallway of 221b, weighed down to the point of immobility by several swelling shopping bags.

"Sherlock!" He called again, "A little help might be nice!"

This time he raised his voice, assuring that if his flatmate _was_ in the vicinity he would most definitely be heard. And yet...nothing. So, assuming his friend was out and subsequently giving up hope of receiving any assistance, he wrestled himself and his baggage the final distance into the kitchen. Into the kitchen, where his eyes fell upon a pair of black, exquisitely made, leather gloves and the distinct material of a navy scarf. With his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and annoyance he followed his nose in to the living room of his flat, where the owner of these items lay sprawled out, on the sofa; eyes closed and arms covered in nicotine patches. 

"You bloody bastard, Sherlock Hol-" John started.

"Oh for God's sake, John! Do you _want_ to make any more noise? I am aware you may not have the mental capability to stay silent, given the dull condition of your mind, but if you could be only a little bit considerate."

"Considerate?! Oh please tell me you're joking. Did you not hear me at the door? Struggling with the shopping _you_ wanted for _your_ God damn experiments?"

"Yes. I did hear you. And that is exactly the point."

Resourcing  the last of his self control, John took a deep breath, turned and walked out. Whilst living with Sherlock, he had realised that, in order to successfully avoid an aneurysm, you had to pick your battles.

"Why all the patches anyway?" John called from the kitchen, whilst putting away the twenty tubs of butter Sherlock had requested. Or, more honestly, demanded. 

"A case, John," Sherlock drawled. 

"Oh, you didn't let me know... What's that about then?"

John battled to keep the wounded tone from his voice but some what failed. 

"You're not hurt are you Dr. Watson?" Sherlock said, suddenly a lot closer than John expected. He turned to find the tall detective uncomfortably involved in his own personal space. Their eyes locked.  "It is hardly my fault you insist on keeping that banal job at the surgery. Plus Lestrade only called an hour ago."

John immediately blushed on account of his jealous teenage girl reaction and looked down because of the small distance between his, heterosexual, lips and the indeterminable lips of his flat mate.  Not that he was thinking about Sherlock's lips in a sexual way. Not that he was thinking about any part of him in a sexual way. 

Regardless of John's lacking response and flustered condition, Sherlock seemed unfazed as he reached past John to the cupboard, retrieved a jar of peanut butter and sauntered away.  John collected his thoughts, put away the last of the shopping and followed his lanky friend in to the living room. They both sat quietly until the apparent silence was broken by the entrance of their landlady. 

"Boys, I've made some tea if you want to-"

"Not now Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up from his previous sitting position, "Time is of the essence, there has been a murder-"

"A murder?" 

"Yes," he said exasperatedly, "A murder! A few by the sounds of things... There is no time for menial things such as tea, when there is a case to be solved!" 

Grabbing his coat, scarf and gloves from the kitchen, Sherlock barely paused before striding out of the room and down the stairs, slamming the door behind him and leaving Mrs Hudson and John in silence. 

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson. He doesn't mean  to be so rude. It's just when there's a case..."

"Oh, I know dear. It's fine. Any tea for you?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine just here" replied John. leaning to the table, picking up yesterdays paper and  watching Mrs Hudson leave.

He flicked through some articles that were of no interest to him and waited for Sherlock to return. As it got later and darker, the abundance of things to do lessened as did his will to wait around. Finally, four hours after his friend had run out John decided to retire to bed. He had work the next day, anyway, and his leg had begun to ache. Plus Sherlock was fine, he was an adult he didn't need John to wait up for him or check he was ok.

He stood, taking his newly emptied cup of tea in to the kitchen and placing it on the counter. He hadn't bothered to turn on any of the lights and so cautiously walked through the hallway and up the stairs. As he got about halfway up, the sound of the front door caused him to pause. Turning, he looked down at his dishevelled and surprisingly wet flatmate.

"John, what are you doing?" He said, his face barely visible, his voice seasoned with tones of irritation. The dark meant he was only recognisable by the wild silhouette of his unruly hair.

"What am I doing? Er... well I was just about to go to bed actually.."

"But... we have a case!"

John raised his eyebrows, nervously laughing in surprise. 

"Sherlock, you've been gone over four hours." 

"I'm quite aware John.." Sherlock started, moving up towards him, stair by stair. "Why did you not come?"

"You ran out! How was I supposed to-"

"You haven't been answering your phone."

"I must have- I didn't realise-" John suddenly felt very confused by the intense questioning he was receiving from Sherlock and the close proximity of his friend. 

"Well?" Aforementioned friend asked.

"Well, what?"

"Oh for God's sake, are you coming?"

"You want me to come?"

"Of course. That's what I've been saying..."

"It's ten o'clock.  I have work tomorrow."

Sherlock turned, suddenly, and walked back down the stairs, pausing at the bottom. He looked back up at John and an outside street light lit up his expectant expression.

"Come now, we both know you've been ready to go for the last ninety seconds." The detective smoothly asserted. "The game is on and I need my blogger."

"Ok" said the Doctor and followed him down the stairs, out the door and into the night.  

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

When they arrived at the scene, an open area of Battersea Park, John immediately detected the irritation, on the face of Lestrade.

"Where in the world have you been?!" He exclaimed."Sherlock you can't just- yep that's fine. Just walk past, you KNOBHEAD"

"Sorry, Greg" John started "this one might be on me. Apparently I'm supposed to telepathically know when sherlock wants or needs me."

"Look mate. It's not your fault. I just- I don't know..." Greg's voice trailed off as he noticed John eagerly looking to the place Sherlock had just been "Go on. Go find out what he's doing. Make sure he doesn't get into trouble."

"Right. Yeah. Cheers" John replied, already moving past the detective inspector.

"But, John?"

"Yes?" He answered, barely pausing.

"Look after yourself. Don't let everything be about him. You don't want to get hurt."

After a brief nod John increased his pace once again. He wasn't entirely sure as to what Lestrade was getting at. He wasn't Sherlocks lap dog. He was his partner. And when he said hurt, did he mean physically or emotionally, because it sounded an awful lot like the latter. But that made no sense.

He was still wondering about the comments when he caught up with Mr Holmes himself. He was crouching over the body of a woman.  In her thirties. Artificially blonde and provocatively dressed. She was on her back on the cold, stone floor, the only visible wound indicated by a large bloodstain on the left side of her abdomen. John had overheard some of the sergeants talking. There had been no apparent witnesses.

"Can't be more than a day old..." John said as he crouched down to Sherlock's level. 

"Good. And?"

"And what? You're the detective here, you tell me."

"Ah. Yes. But that would be no fun because I am always right."

"Mmmm but you're modest though and that's what counts" muttered John under his breath just as Lestrade walked in. 

"Guys, I'm sorry but we haven't got much time. What have you got?"

Sherlock said nothing whilst John apologetically shrugged at Greg and went to stand with him. 

"John." Sherlock said looking up at where his flat mate and Lestrade were standing, "what are you doing?"

The doctor stared back blankly as Sherlock stood, grabbed his elbow and pulled him to the side of the room. Lestrade raised his eyes to heaven, but walked out knowing he would get nowhere. 

Suddenly, they were alone and the room was silent. That didn't keep the hushed tones from Sherlocks voice when he spoke. 

"What is wrong with you tonight?" He hissed. 

"Wrong with me?!"

"Yes. You. You didn't come on the case, you're not involved in the investigation..." 

John stopped listening to what Sherlock was saying when he realised how close they were. His flatmate's eyes bore into him with a greater intensity than usual; his pale skin and taut cheekbones were more distracting than John had ever realised. He glanced down at where Sherlock was still holding his elbow, most unecessarily. When he raised his eyeline once again, he realised Sherlock had stopped talking. 

"John, are you even listening?"His  voice had slowed now but was still laced with irritation. 

"What? Right. Yeah. Er. Look. I don't observe. That's you're thing. I'm not going to get involved. 

Sherlock shook his head, dropped John's arm and returned to the corpse. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. 

"So what do you reckon?" John attempted.

Sherlock stayed silent until Greg reentered the room. 

"Right boys, what have we got?"

"Mmmm? Ah. Yes. Well, her hair is dyed and her make up... Abundant.. But..." The detective trailed off. 

"Yeah?"

"Her hair, clothes, make up. They're wrong. They initially suggest she cares about her appearance. The nails aren't polished though and her clothes and jewellery aren't expensive meaning that she has no real long term investment in how she looks." 

"So, she was attempting to impress? She's married, so I'm going to say maybe an affair?" John cut in. 

Sherlock looked at him. He said nothing just stood, staring. John and Greg exchanged looks. 

"Sherlock?" Greg tried. 

"Yes?" The detective distractedly replied, his head turning toward the Inspector, whilst his eyes were most certainly fixed on John. "Ah. Right. An affair! Exactly right, John. Very nice." His eyes flicked down to the floor and he started pacing around the room, diverting his attention from the face of his partner. 

"So, she was on her way to meet a lover. Now, the stab wound appears to be the cause of fatality here," he continued, "considering the lack of any other apparent wounds or signs of asphyxiation."

"The vast amount of blood around her suggests she was killed here and wasn't moved post mortem. She wouldn't have walked any lengthy distances in this kind if weather, given that she is wearing four inch heels and yet the mud on them suggests that she did."

"Right... Ok..."

 "She's clean of any bruising, so she wasn't forcibly manhandled although she may have been threatened. What can _you_  tell me?"

"Her name is Mrs Catherine Reid. She's thirty six, been married eight years, no children, lives the other side of London, in Greenwich. We've sent off for lab results just in case and they'll be back in the next two to three days.."

"Who found her?"

"A passer-by. He's outside. Mr Mark Lansford.. Was out jogging this morning. The body was discovered at 6.30am." 

"Right. Speak to the husband. Get a statement. Speak to the lover. Get a statement. Phone me if there's anything new." Sherlock demanded.

"Come John", he said without looking back, "we have a Mark Lansford to speak to..." 

John followed obediently avoiding the look on Greg's face.

 

                                                                                               **********************************************

"So, Mr Lansford, can you please recall, to my colleague and I, what happened?" Sherlock asked. 

"Well, I go out for a jog every morning, just before work you see, but  _this_ morning-" he started.

"Yes, very interesting. The time?" Sherlock cut in.

Mr Lansford, taken aback by the bluntness of the detective, blushed a deep red whilst looking between Watson and Holmes.

"Sherlock...." John warned, looking at the floor embarrassedly. 

"John, we don't have all day... Mr Lansford, continue."

"Well, as I was saying-"

"Continue briefly, I meant."

"Oh right, well-"

"Very briefly."

"Yes-"

"Minimal detail."

"Sherlock!" John scolded. Sherlock remained silent.

"I went out about 6am. Found the body around twenty minutes later." Said the man, quietly, not meeting the eyes of the detective.

"Mmmmm." hummed Sherlock, "And upon finding the body, what did you do?"

"Uh.. I phoned the police?"

"No ambulance?"

"Well, no... She was dead so..."

"And how did you know this?"

"Sorry?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently, "How did you know she was dead?"

"Oh... Well, she wasn't moving and she was bleeding... a lot... I guess..."

"So you didn't actually know?"

"Well, no.."

"Right, that'll be all."

Sherlock turned on his heel and promptly strode away leaving the man behind, bewildered. Half jogging to match his pace, John followed his friend, through the scene, back past policemen and forensic scientists and under the police tape to where Lestrade was standing.

"Boys," he started, "what is going on? I've just been called from the other side of the scene, where Mr Lansford is. He's crying. A lot. Hysterically, the sergeant said. For God's sake, what happened?"

"Time waster. Nothing of any interest. Check his background to be sure, but nothing as far as we can see."

John looked up at the "we". He'd barely said a word for the last hour and yet Sherlock was using inclusive pronouns to describe his own conclusions. Seemingly oblivious to the doctor's confusion, the detective continued.

"We're going back to Baker Street, there's nothing to do here but wait for lab results and statements. Text me when they're in."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode away.

Twenty yards later, he stopped and looked back to see, John apologising to Lestrade on behalf of his flatmate. Busy chatting, they didn't notice Sherlock looking on. He couldn't explain the feeling that overcame him. It was sinking and heavy and made him want to shout. He couldn't hear exactly what they were saying but didn't really need to. John was wearing his eternally apologetic face that came out when Sherlock did something wrong and Lestrade was looking understanding, on the verge of pitiful. The picture was perfect and normal and he wasn't there. Everyone seemed content and happy and he _wasn't_  there. Surrounded by his best friend, his favourite detective inspector and twenty other police officers, he suddenly realised how lonely he was. So ninety seconds later, when John shook Greg's hand, promised him a trip to the pub and laughed about what a nightmare Sherlock Holmes was, the world's only consulting detective had decided he didn't need to see or hear any more.

And when John looked up, there was no one waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

When John reached the flat, all the lights were off and silence resounded through the halls. He climbed the stairs to Sherlock's room, temporarily ignoring the rest of 221B. His friend and flatmate had been acting oddly and he was determined to find out why.

He knocked on the door and when there was no reply, he pushed it open and peered inside. Books and papers lined the walls in a messy, extremely Sherlock-like fashion. There was a faint smell, that John couldn't quite determine, but didn't necessarily dislike, and the wallpaper seemed faded. Unlike the rest of the room the floor was clear and the bed untouched. John didn't spend much time in here. The bedrooms seemed to be the only thing he and Sherlock didn't share.

Seeing no sign of the detective, he went back downstairs into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and grab something to eat. He came to terms with the fact that he would be calling in sick, given that he had four hours before he had to be at the clinic. He used any leftovers he could find to make a sandwich and then navigated his way in the dark, to the living room where he set down his mug and plate and went to go and turn on a light.

When he stood, however, he was able to make out the shape of a tall, lanky, messy haired detective, curled up like a cat, on the sofa.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You could have said you were here! Gave me the fright of my life.."

Sherlock said nothing and John sat down opposite him.

"Are you ok?"

"Fine, John." He replied. His voice was cold, he stayed completely unmoving.

"Sherlock don't- Look, you've been acting really strangely. Would you care to say why?"

"Your definition of strange, John, is entirely different to mine. You think my experiments are odd, you think my opinions are strange... You think I, as a person, an individual," he paused, "am not normal.."

John laughed,"You definitely aren't normal.. But that's not a bad thing?"

"Isn't it?" 

"What?" 

"Isn't it a bad thing to be abnormal, as you put it? To be unusual? To be different?"

"What is up with you at the moment? We're all different Sherlock. Who gives a damn? It doesn't matter!" His voice had raised now.

John realised they were still sitting in the dark when the flame of the lighter illuminated his flat mates face. The detective raised it to his lips and the light was gone, leaving just the orange orb of a lit cigarette. Smoke blew out around them.

"Sherlock, you quit." John said, his voice low. When Sherlock continued his silence and his smoke inhalation, John stood. "For God's sake if you're going to smoke a) don't do it around me and b) not in my living room. I don't know what is going on with you but I can't deal with unpredictability and perpetual sulkiness. So sort it out." 

He picked up his mug, left his untouched sandwich and turned. He was halfway out the room when-

"John." Sherlock said, so unbelievably quiet, that John was surprised he heard and wondered if he was meant to have heard it. He stopped and looked back round, the light from the cigarette was gone. 

"Yes?"

Sherlock's face was cast down and he said nothing. 

"Sherlock. What is it? I'm tired. Either say what's wrong or just stop acting out!"

"There's nothing wrong"

"Nothing's wrong?" John said, nodding slowly, "Ah, I see. So you ignore me today, run out on a case and then come back demanding my presence? And that's normal? You pull me over at a crime scene and ask why I'm lacking 'involvement' when you're usually distracted by the sound of your own self absorbed monologues? And that's good old standard Sherlock, is it? You act all weird and intense and I'm supposed to know what's going on?" He was almost shouting now. "I'm so used to you voicing your opinions every thirty seconds, that when you're quiet and you don't let me know and you keep disappearing-"

"Why," Sherlock said, slowly, "do you care?"

John's eyes widened shocked by the interruption, "Why-"

"You heard me, why is it you care? Don't think I didn't see you today at the crime scene." Sherlock rose from where he had been sitting and began to walk to where John was standing, his voice matching the volume of John's, "With Lestrade. And all your other colleague friends."

His mouth lingered on the word 'friends', drawing it out to nothing but a hiss, his face creasing up and his eyes narrowing.

"Lestrade?"

"Oh yes, don't think I don't notice you, with your apologetic glances and embarrassed expressions. Are they  _all_ for me?"

He was standing directly in front of John now. John's eyes were down but he brought them back up to reply.

"I'm not embarrassed."

"Oh you're not are you? Your face says something entirely different." The detective walked straight past him in to the kitchen and John called after him.

"Well, if you didn't act like a complete arsehole, all of the time..."

"Oh so you  _are_ embarrassed." Sherlock pressed, looking through the cupboards for something.

"Don't put this all on me," said John, following him in to the kitchen, "I don't know why you act the way you do sometimes, you just don't think." 

"Oh  _I_ don't think? It's  _me_ who doesn't think. Where are my cigarettes?"

"You don't need them."

Sherlock paused and looked up, his eyes boring into John's with a deep intensity. He moved over slowly to where John was standing against the counter and leaned into his space.

"You don't tell me what I don't need, John Watson. You think I don't see you." He hissed, "I. See. You."

John didn't move. Didn't say anything. He felt Sherlock's breath on his face and maintained the fierce eye contact. There was a bubble between them. A fragile bubble of tension.

"I notice you and everything you do. I hear you whisper to Lestrade and laugh at me. I see you roll your eyes and shake your head. And you tell me _I_ don't think?"

"You're rude and dismissive. Don't tell me you don't know that." John said,  voice no more than a whisper. Sherlock stepped back, as if stung, the bubble popped and the tension dropped but when he spoke, the words were laced with anger.

"I am quite aware. You have no need or want for me? Leave." He stepped past the Doctor, back into the living room. John followed.

"You.. want me to move out?"

"That's not what I said." He was looking for the cigarettes elsewhere now.

John laughed, a bitter, angry sound "It's what you inferred. Will you just stop and listen?! You never listen."

"I listen to you when you make sense. I listen when you're not gossiping with your  _friends."_

"This... this jealousy you've got of my friendship with Greg... I don't know where that's stemmed  from but-"

Sherlock turned  to look at John, stepping back towards him.

"I'm not jealous."

"Really? Because that what it sounds like to me."

He moved forward, so that he was in front of John.

"I'm not jealous."

"Well, what is WRONG then?"

"I DON'T KNOW." Sherlock yelled.

"Well, at least we've established that _something_ is wrong!"

"Yes! Very, very clever John! Are you _sure_ you're not the detective?"

"Do you want to keep your voice down? It's almost three in the morning, we do have a landlady."

"But why would I care?! I'm a heartless, uncaring, dismissive psychopath! Text Greg and tell him that, why don't you? Another example of one of my many, many faults, that you can both giggle about at the pub!" Sherlock said, still shouting.

"I didn't say that!"

"You didn't need to."

John shook his head, "You're being unreasonable."

"That's what I am. That's what I do. Where are my cigarettes?"

"Why do you all of a sudden need to resurrect a smoking habit?" 

"I need to think. Where are my cigarettes?"

"Think about what?"

Sherlock crowded into his space.

"Where. Are. My. Cigarettes?"

John crowded back, "Think. About. What?"

Sherlock said nothing. Just stared. 

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock?" John continued, "I am embarrassed. I do apologise for you. But that's because you're... You. You don't listen. You don't care."

The detective raised his hanod to the doctor's sternum and pushed him back until he was against the wall and held him there.

 "Sherlock. What are you doing?" John said, his voice steady but his legs feeling less than strong.

They were still surrounded in darkness but with such a small distance, John could make out Sherlock'a face. Again he could feel his flatmates breath on his face and it felt almost familiar. Sherlock's eyes flicked between that of John's as if looking for something. His pupils were wide and the stillness he held indicated his fury. Momentarily, his eyes flicked down to John's lips, that were becoming drier by the second, but it was so brief that John wondered if he had imagined it. The detective leaned in so his lips were at John's ears. 

"Don't apologise for me." Sherlock whispered, with no attempt to hide his anger, "Don't look embarrased for me. And don't you dare think I don't care... about... you."

His voice was so quiet, his words so slow. He brought his eyes, still filled with ire, back to meet John's and then there was a moment. A moment when there was nothing in the room, but them. A moment when the silence was deafening. A moment of nothing that was simultaneously everything. And then Sherlock'a lips were on his. 

All the fury and tension were poured into a kiss. It took John a good ten seconds to cotton on but then he was dragged in. Sherlock was still angry. John could tell by the harshness with which he pushed John against the wall and the forcefulness with which he used his, clearly experienced, tongue. He could taste the warmth of Sherlock's mouth and the cigarette he'd just put out.

One hand stayed against John's chest pushing him back, the other behind his neck pulling him further in.

Sherlock dragged his teeth across John's lips, eliciting a moan from his thoroughly confused friend. John had no control over the quickly occurring events. He felt his own lips respond with vigour, his hands raking through Sherlock's raven hair. He was pushing back, trying to get closer, as Sherlock stayed strong against him. 

And then a haze cleared. 

"Sherlock." he said, holding the detective at a slight distance, "what are you doing?" 

Sherlock was breathing heavily, his eyes dark, his hands either side of John's face. He slammed his palm against the wall, making John jump, and brought his face to John's neck, biting animalistically at the skin. He worked his way along till their lips were almost touching once again, pushed his nose against John's and then went in for a kiss with the full force he had previously. 

His tongue slipped in, his hips pressed against John's. He moved his hands up and down John's body as if he had to remember every touch and every sound that touch brought.

And suddenly he stopped. He pulled back, without warning, his face still only inches from John's. He slammed his hand into the wall again and hissed out a breath. His face was down as he turned and walked to the other side of the room, creating a mutually unwanted distance between them. 

"John." Sherlock said his voice hoarse. 

John walked up behind him, his hand hovering over his shoulder. The detective turned and the shorter man's hand dropped. 

His face was blank and when he spoke, he sounded cold. 

"I'm going out" he said and strode past. 

"Wait! You can't! Where are you going?" 

John ran in front of him, holding his arm against the doorway and preventing him from leaving. Sherlock sighed and looked him in the eye.

"John Watson, let me past."

When the doctor didn't move, he put both hands on his shoulders and pushed him up against the door frame. They were close again. Close enough for John's breath to stop. Close enough to see Sherlock's dilated pupils. Close enough for it to be not platonic. John thought that he might kiss him again and for a moment so did Sherlock. But he let him stand and walked out of the flat, leaving a red lipped, wide eyed, wholly turned on John Watson, standing on his own.  


End file.
